


In Another Timeline

by BanhTM



Series: Team Galactic [1]
Category: Pocket Monsters SPECIAL | Pokemon Adventures, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Diamond & Pearl & Platinum | Pokemon Diamond Pearl Platinum Versions
Genre: Adoption, Cussing, Family, Gen, Sensitive themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 06:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27466255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BanhTM/pseuds/BanhTM
Summary: In another timeline, Jupiter took Cyrus in.
Series: Team Galactic [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148369
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	In Another Timeline

My throat tightens when the doorbell rings. I swallow the pool of spit that was rotting on my tongue, and I stand. It's nothing to be anxious about. I've faced direr situations.

I open the door. "H-Hello." I sound like a frightened little girl left alone in a shopping mall.

"Ma'am," my son says with a nod. Always with a nod, as if I was another stranger he had to impress.

"Hi, C-Cyrus." My cheeks hurt from smiling. "And this must be your grandfather."

The old man beside him removes his bowler cap, pressing it against his bosom as he nods. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, I suppose. "And you must be Jane, his adoptive parent."

Darkness falls on Cyrus's face. I instantly intervene with a bubbly, "P-Please come in! I told Cyrus that I wouldn't mind driving down to Sunyshore to meet you."

"Hrmph! Do not mistake me for another frail old man! I've walked up _mountains_ when I was Cyrus's age!" Cyrus walks his grandfather inside. The old man scowls. "Son, don't hover behind me like a Gastly! I can walk by myself!"

I pull Cyrus aside. "Thanks for walking him all the way to Hearthome."

His eyes crinkle. "Of course. Grandfather was insistent in seeing your house."

_"Your_ house," he said. Not _"our_ house."

* * *

Cyrus's grandfather is already poking around my place when I return from the washroom.

"So you're a police officer," he says.

"Detective," I gently correct.

"You have guns at home?"

"J-Just one. I keep the ammunition separate when I'm off-duty."

Cyrus emerges from the kitchen with two cups of tea. Black for me and fragrant green for his grandfather. He moves with fluidity like a professional butler. A fine guise to hide the slightest of trembles in his hands.

He must be as nervous as I am.

All is quiet as Cyrus's grandfather sips his tea. "Are you just going to stand there, Cyrus?"

Cyrus jolts. "I-I'm sorry."

"Stop saying that."

"I'm sorry…"

The old man sighs sharply through his nose. I sympathize with his irritation: Cyrus does have the terrible habit of apologizing for every damn thing. It drives me up the wall when he takes the blame for something that wasn't his fault.

"I-I'll cut some fruit," Cyrus blurts. He disappears into the kitchen before I can join him.

Now it's just me and this judgmental old man. His disappointment must be immeasurable, and his day must be ruined.

"Miss Jane," he says stiffly.

My throat tightens again. "Y-Yes? Sir?"

"Has Cyrus caused any trouble for you?"

I had to think on that question. Ever since I took Cyrus in, he's been… _docile,_ for lack of a better word. Ate whatever I cooked him. Wore whatever I bought him. When I came home on late nights, he had done his chores and even tried to make dinner.

"Not really," I admit. "He's extremely easy to raise. A Buneary would give me a harder time than him."

The old man frowns. "What made you adopt him? There must be plenty of younger children in that orphanage"

He's really going for it, huh? I had to wrench my tongue from my cheek to speak. "I-It wasn't my idea at first. My sister was the one who wanted to parent a child. She dragged me to go look with her…" Shit, I sound like I'm window shopping for a kid.

My thoughts drift back to that day. I hated being in that place. I hated trying not to stare at those touch-starved children vying for Melissa's love. While she was charming the crowd, I caught glimpse of a gangly thing barely in his teens, setting plates on the dining table.

They told me he was like a big brother to the smaller tykes. Still, it was strange seeing someone his age in that kind of institution. The older you get, your chances of being wanted plummets.

Our gazes met in that fateful moment. How could someone so young have such mournful eyes?

The old man continues to silently judge me with his frown. "You must be a very busy person," he says dryly. "What made you decide on adopting a child?"

" _Do you make time for your child?"_ he might've said instead.

Once again, my mind drifts back to the past. Further back, to my childhood. I remember my mother. When she wasn't stuck in bed, she would whisk Melissa and me to the park. She'd buy the whole aisle of sweet bread at the local pâtisserie. One time, we slipped in the rear door of the Contest Hall, found a handful of empty seats, and watched a Master Rank Contest.

The good spells dwindled come Winter. Melissa and I would take turns cleaning and cooking. I dreaded bringing food to Mother. I hated the fact that we were wasting food, but I loathed that look in her eyes even more.

They were empty, mournful eyes. Eyes of a victim trapped in bottomless despair. Decades later, when dear Mother had passed, I saw her again in the eyes of that boy.

When I snap back to the present, the minute hand of the clock has shifted three paces. My throat is raw like I'd swallowed cacti whole. I turn away before my face can betray me.

"I can take care of him," I retort harshly. "I-I've _been_ taking care of him."

Cyrus's grandfather glances at the empty mantelpiece. Was he expecting something? Then it hits me, and my stomach plummets. I've no pictures of his grandson in my house. No timestamps, no proof that Cyrus had grown up here.

A stale breeze scalds my brittle nerves. Cyrus. When did he get here? Fortunately, it doesn't look like he's been eavesdropping.

"Your bread and butter." There's a stiff gait to him as he sets the plates down. Toasted wheat bread with a block of churned butter. A cup of sugar on the side. Classic.

"What happened to the fruit?" I say.

His ear twitches. "O-Oh. Yes. Fruit..." 

I grab his arm. There it is: fresh bandages on his fingers. That would explain why he has his back to me.

"You cut yourself _again?"_ I snap. "I _told_ you to stay away from knives!"

"I didn't mean to!" he huffs. "I was planning to serve some nectarines, but…" His shoulders droop. "I got blood all over them. They're inedible now…"

Cyrus never ceases to worry me.

"I'll see if I can put something together," he continues, a bandaged thumb pressed under his lip. "My apologies, Grandfather."

I stand up. "Did you wrap the nectarines when you threw them away? If someone sees me holding a trash bag that's dripping blood…"

Cyrus blinks. "Threw what away?"

His obliviousness clicks in my head. This brat never wastes food. He sticks to that sacrament like he'll face divine retribution if he stepped out of line.

Before I can drill some sense into that thick skull of his, he invents some excuse about forgetting to turn off the stove lamp and disappears back into his sanctuary.

* * *

"Ahem."

Shit. I forgot that old man is still here.

Shit on a stick. He probably came to fight over the custody of his grandson after witnessing my less-than-stellar parenting.

The old man has finished his buttered toast. He absently twirls his knife like he intends to stab my eyeball. After an agonizing minute of watching him sharpen his utensils, his lips finally part.

"Miss Jane. Do you love my grandson?"

That question is like an ice pick to the brain. I stand there, stunned, mouth agape. When I come to, my ass is back on the loveseat, and a caustic old man is awaiting my response.

"O-Of course I love him," I stammer. "He's my adop—he's my son. But…"

"But?"

"I don't think he loves me," I finish in a whisper. There's just the two of us in the foyer. The topic of discussion is still in the kitchen, rifling through the cabinets for something to impress his grandfather. "I've raised him for almost ten years now, yet I have no idea what his favorite food is. I don't know what kind of music he's into. Hell, I don't even know what his favorite color is!"

I bury my head in my hands. "Not once have I heard him call me 'mom.'"

There is silence on the other end. I sense a pair of disapproving, judgmental eyes weighing on the back of my neck.

"Huh. Is that really what you believe?"

When I raise my head, the old man is tipping his empty tea cup back and forth. His mind is elsewhere. If I'm not wrong, it feels like he's purposefully avoiding my gaze.

"You claim that he doesn't love you," he mumbles. "Do you have concrete evidence, aside from your baseless assumptions?"

"What…?"

"Do you know why Cyrus was brought up for adoption in the first place?" When he finally returns, I'm surprised to see regret on that hardened, weathered face. "I did it. His situation at home wasn't… _appropriate._ So with the minimal custody I had left, I took him away from Sunyshore. Hearthome was the farthest, yet closest place I could find."

I feel that the wind had been knocked out of me by the time he finished. Shit. The sisters were unable to tell me much about Cyrus's history, and he himself was very much tight-lipped about it.

"But you could've taken him in!" I find myself yelling. "There was no need to throw him in an orphanage far away from home!"

Now it's the grandfather's turn to flinch. "Do I _look_ like I can raise a child?" he snaps. "I don't trust those social service people; I'd rather Cyrus find some nice family that'll take good care of him."

"But what if that never happened?" I lower my voice. _"What if I didn't go with Melissa to the orphanage?"_

The old man stares at me for the longest time. Then he chuckles. A hoarse, mirthless laugh.

"When we call each other, Cyrus never refers to you as anything other than his mother," he says softly. "You saved his future." He folds his hands over his lap. Tucks them in his coat pocket. " _I_ thought I knew what was best for him. _I'm_ the one that messed up his life. The person Cyrus hates is me, not you."

Cyrus's grandfather pulls out an envelope from his pocket. "Miss Jane."

I receive it with trembling hands. Inside are… pictures. Grainy, photocopied pictures of a boy draped across an ancient rocking chair. Of the same boy holding up a diploma for "Student of the Day."

"That's the child he used to be," mutters the grandfather. "He doesn’t smile much anymore, but when he did, it would light up my world."

He must've stayed late to photocopy all these memories. And now he's handing his treasures to a stranger. It takes a while before I find my voice.

"You're giving this to me… before you leave forever, right? You wanted to meet me so you can make sure your grandson is in the right hands."

The old man offers a wry smile. "Nothing gets pass your nose, eh, Detective?" With a stifled grunt, he hoists himself to his feet. "You are a fine mother. It is I who has no place in his new life."

"That's not true…"

"Bah, don't waste your breath humoring this old man. I know when I'm not needed anymore—"

"Grandfather?"

We both freeze. Cyrus steps closer, a plate of wafers in his hand. His gaze bounces between us, analyzing our expressions, measuring the heavy atmosphere in this room.

"Are you leaving already?" he mutters. "But you've only gotten here."

The old man's eyes crinkle. "I-I'm afraid I have… very important business to tend to! No need to walk me back."

"What business?" A sharp edge laces Cyrus's tone.

His grandfather scowls. "Look, I'm busy, okay? Enjoy dinner with your mother."

"Ma'am?"

I jump. "Y-Yesh?"

"I would like Grandfather to join us for dinner." He states it with such authority that he could've been my Chief. Conviction burns behind that usually stoic façade.

"W-Well," the old man starts.

"You're right," I say with firm finality. "Can't afford to waste all this food in the fridge."

Cyrus grabs the old man's tailcoats before the latter can leap out the door. "Miss Jane has taught me the basics of boiling!" he boats. "I can boil you some cabbage, Grandfather!"

"Let go—"

"Please stay." Desperation coats Cyrus's throat. Even the old man notices it. "I've missed you, Grandfather… I know I'm asking too much, but would you please stay for a little longer? I don't mind walking you back there."

No matter how heartwarming this moment is, it isn't my battle, so I leave for the kitchen. Cyrus had set a humungous head of lettuce on the stove, as if he'd been anticipating this. While he chips away at his grandfather's stubbornness, I acquaint myself with the scrapbook.

"Ma'am!" Cyrus exclaims.

I smirk. "Yeah?"

"He said yes! Grandfather is staying for dinner!"


End file.
